


be not afraid of the quiet dead

by astrid (alharper)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Captivity, F/M, Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexism, Sexual Violence, Violence, non-significant bodily harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alharper/pseuds/astrid
Summary: “Tell me, princeling,” Arthas asks him, “how many men have you bent over for?  I won't flatter myself to think I could be the first.”Kael'thas was in Silvermoon when it was struck, and Arthas' jealousy and strange fascination with his beauty has hardly gotten less strange in the absence of a soul.





	1. Kael'thas

**Author's Note:**

> Arthas POV, as a violent rapist who probably couldn't pick the motivators of the people he's keeping captive if it was written down in big letters and also someone was fucking coaching him.
> 
> Please make sure you read the tags, or ask me if you have specifics, but this involves graphic depictions of rape.
> 
> Posted to the kinkmeme but it's a self fill so idk how much that counts?

  
  


### 

**Part One**

  
  
  


The citadel in Icecrown is huge. Spare and bright, it's icy from spire to stay, with two notable exceptions - the velvety dens in which the san’layn dwell with their glassy-eyed victims, and a small wing of ordinary seeming rooms that Arthas was assured by those with the affinity for it would allow no mage cast within their walls. Kel’thuzad had secured the space at his request, without question or inquiry beyond how many rooms it should encompass. So there are three full suites, sealed from the reach of any arcane power. So far, he has only a single prisoner.

Though that may change. There are a few people he can think of who would be a great boon to his forces, should such an opportunity present itself again.

And how opportune Silvermoon had been - delicate spires and intricate golden patterns on everything, smashed like the finest glass beneath his fists. A triumph to delight in when so little can, now; so many of his emotions are muted, trapped behind a thick and clouded glass except when edged with something darker to throw them into relief. He remembers the full force of jealousy, of spite, but affection and happiness are impossible to call forth except that they’re encircled by the former, and even still fade towards cold static to be forgotten unless he draws them out. He has no regrets - he has gained far more than he lost, and _soft_ is very much like _weak_.

Anasterian had fallen as quickly to Frostmourne’s endless hunger as his rangers and magisters before him; Arthas had no quarrel with the old man, but he also had no need of him. But his bright and shining son, who had stood spitting fire and hatred at the gates of the city - for _him_ , Arthas held malice aplenty. And for him, this airy and well-appointed dungeon had been created, to keep still in time and extract satisfaction when and howsoever he might wish.

Kael had been so proud and determined, before Arthas had stolen consciousness away. Exactly the sort of figure to inspire, for his people to stand tall and rallied behind. The repetition of horror on so many faces from their citizens to the raging grief of the old King, held against Arthas on his horse in a parody of tenderness, that they might recognize him sooner - _that_ had made the whole thing even better than he’d imagined, sweet and heady as his first boyhood mouthfuls of honeyed mead.

“Maybe I shall take your throne the traditional way,” he’d called to one of the Magisters, grim and wrathful where his fellows were scattering, increasingly obvious in their terror, “you think your prince would make a good queen?”

He'd laid a kiss on Kael’s warm brow, held eye contact and laughed as the magister had screamed, incoherent with rage. His fellows had dragged him through a portal with them as they all abandoned their red and gold home to its fate, and it had been disappointing to see him go without the opportunity to dispatch the man himself. He was strong, fierce - Frostmourne may have been slaked, for a further, bare moment. The great sword sits now quiescent at his hip, no more an implacable background hum in his mind, quieter even than the constant, cold presence of his liege.

The halls seem empty at first glance as he nears his goal, but even in this far-flung an area it is not unguarded - shades and gargoyles permeate all corners, visible in the rafters to those who know how to look.

When Arthas enters the room, Kael sits pensive by one of the great, frost-rimed windows overlooking Corp’rethar. He rises to meet him, fingers of one hand grazing the tabletop as he pulls himself to full height - he's taller than Arthas, though not by much. He's been reduced in the weeks since his capture, line of cheekbones and jaw just a little sharper than they were, but he holds himself still and sets his face to an expression of calm, lofty arrogance. Even so, trepidation is stamped so deep it shows through at his edges, like a drop-sheet hints at the furniture beneath.

“What do you mean to accomplish by keeping me here?” his voice is whip-sharp, and Arthas doesn't even try to help himself - he smiles. He'd not quite decided when he began his trek through the Citadel, but seeing the way he holds himself decides the matter.

“A great number of things, Prince Kael’thas,” he returns with mocking formality, “and you'll become aware of them only as it's convenient to me.”

That stillness breaks, and Kael punches him square in the face. It's a good punch - nice form, economic movement, and Arthas’ head snaps back.

He comes up laughing.

Arthas was already powerful before his metamorphosis, broad and well muscled with paladin training, but there's an extra edge to his strength now - a dulling of pain and a lack of fear that caused his strength to explode.

He's prepared for the next move, bats Kael’s fists away with very little effort and spins him with a hard hand on his shoulder and a forceful shove in the middle of his back has him sprawled face-first across the table.

The glow of his eyes make them seem to literally blaze as he wrenches his head around to look at him, teeth bared. He struggles until Arthas seizes one of his wrists, fine-boned and easy to break, twist an arm around to pin painfully far up his back. Kael goes still, glaring balefully up at him. 

He doesn't seem to have caught on to Arthas’ purpose, though. He's angry, but not yet afraid; his struggling lacks the desperate edge Arthas searches for.

His long hair is a mess, some of it caught under his arm, holding his head back at a difficult angle. Arthas lets up the pressure just enough to pull it back with his free hand, let it run through his fingers like water, or the liquid golden depths of the Sunwell - his very own, taken square and in full. That baleful stare fades a little as he does, just enough to let confusion shine through.

“Tell me, princeling,” Arthas asks him, “how many men have you bent over for? I won't flatter myself to think I could be the first.”

“You will _not_ ,” Kael says, harsh and a little high - does he think Arthas one of his citizens, to be ordered around so? Does he think himself in a position to _negotiate_?

He actually manages to draw his arm free and slip out, throw himself sideways in the little bit of space created by Arthas’ surprise. He may not be as strong, not by a long shot, but he's slippery. No matter - he’ll find no hidden weakness in the lines of _these_ rooms.

Arthas has refrained from using anything but his own raw strength until this point, not for deliberate choice, just convenience - it hadn't been necessary to do otherwise. But now, as Kael darts across the room, he reaches for the slippery shadows that gather to him so easily, and slams Kael back, puts him down as he was and holds him to the table with that dark, ethereal grip tight on the back of his neck. Ignoring his choked objections completely, Arthas pushes his robe up, divests him of the thin pants mages seem to favor, and bares him to the air.

He has a fucking _fantastic_ ass hidden beneath all that cloth, high and firm, attractively rounded. Not as pale as Arthas would have thought, either - that light golden tone apparently not a gift of sunlight, but simply his natural born coloration. His skin is also surprisingly unmarked from what Arthas can see of it, despite his certainly having been trained in sword-work, none of the same lattice of scars and dips he bears from years of practice and it's indulgently soft to the touch over lean, hard muscle.

Kael’s saying something frantic, about honor or decency or some such nonsense. It’s distracting. “If I wanted your permission, I would ask for it,” Arthas tells him, and kicks his legs apart.

He grabs one cheek of that firm ass, keeps his legs apart by grasping his thigh tight in the other, and passes the pad of his thumb back and forth over Kael’s hole, watching the deep, peachy skin quiver in response. He pushes against it slowly and when his thumb breeches his tight ring to slip suddenly inside, Kael lets out a single horrified, choked-off cry. He jerks, but the ethereal hand on his neck and Arthas’ own fingers biting into the meat of his thigh mean it doesn't help him any.

“I'm going to fuck you now,” Arthas tells him, “so you should probably try to relax.”

Arthas frees himself quickly, already fully roused by the desperation in Kael’s snarls, and the attractive planes laid bare by his own hand through force and victory. He spits into his palm, smears it onto the head of his dick in a token effort to mitigate the worst of his intentions, but doesn't bother beyond that - there’s nothing of lovemaking, here.

Kael has largely shut up, breathing gone rapid and shallow - maybe held a shade too tight by death’s grip, maybe simple panic. It's hard to tell.

It's difficult to push in - too dry, uncomfortable, and scorchingly hot against his own still newly cold skin. Beneath him, Kael’s ears pin flat against his head, and air hisses from him as Arthas seats himself deep inside the tight channel of his ass. He’s reminded of nothing so much as a barn cat caught unawares.

Arthas leans over him, holds his wrists to the table level with his shoulders, and lets go of that wisp of darkness. Kael makes a high, croaking sort of noise, and starts struggling again, if more weakly. It's pleasing, in its way, the helplessness of that movement. And pleasing too when he seems to give up, tense and still as Arthas drives relentlessly into him. When he sees the glimmer of tears on those long, pale lashes, he wants to lick them away, taste the salt of victory on his tongue.

But his sense of taste is largely gone anyway, or at least much reduced, so he doesn't bother.

Those ridiculous long ears are limp, wilted as the grass stalks left to die in the wake of his army’s march on Kael’s delicate, overly dramatic city, and Arthas feels giddy on the high of his clear humiliation, grows fast and erratic in his fucking into this _fucking_ elf who thought to try to take what was his.

He could crow, could laugh and devour him whole, feast on the hot meat of him for the joy of it. His orgasm is building, approaching fast and raw and as Arthas gets closer he leans down to bite one of those bladed ears, hard and high.

Kael squeals with shock and pain, wrenches his head away so abruptly that skin tears, separates against his teeth and he's left with a gush of thick, hot blood in his mouth, flesh caught against his incisors, and he comes like he's dying again, a rush of cold so intense he’s blinded and lost to the maelstrom.

He comes back to himself lying across Kael, fine tremors against his fingertips - he'd tightened his grip unconsciously around his wrists. Arthas lets them go, pushes himself up and off entirely, pulls himself free with a grimace. For all he enjoyed it at the time, his dick feels rather raw in the aftermath.

Kael lays limp, long lashes cobwebbing against flushed cheeks, and when Arthas steps away he straightens up painfully. His robe falls back in place, long enough it hides he's still naked beneath it, and leans his back against the wall, hands held to his chest protectively. Small, petal-shaped bruises will bloom around them over the next few days, a mockery of shackles when nothing so banal could hope to hold him captive.

His ears are still back further than normal, and the one Arthas bit bleeds freely, a jagged hank torn from that perfect, up-swept curve, bright red river running clear to his shoulder already. It will scar, and there'll be no hiding it - Arthas thinks of cattle, ears notched for ownership, and laughs.

Kael opens his eyes at the sound, though he doesn't look at him. He's much smaller, like this. More fragile, and Arthas knows now that the lean planes of his chest and the striking arrogance of his usual countenance are nothing more than a spun-glass illusion of strength. It almost touches something in him, where pity might have resided before Frostmourne bore his weaknesses and doubts far away.

Arthas catches Kael’s chin, turns his face up so he’s forced to look at him.

He’s gimlet-eyed and defiant, still, though Arthas is quite certain he's created a fault line. That just in this moment, it would not take much more to shatter him like the crystal he is - pretty, expensive, useless for any real purpose.

“Remember this, next you seek to take something of mine.” Hatred twists his face as Arthas looks him over, and he’s satisfied with that. Let the fire of it reform him. “I have great plans for you, little prince, so don't sulk.”

  
  
  



	2. Kael'thas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is your goal, precisely?”
> 
> “I’ve got many goals.”
> 
> “With… _this_ ,” he motions between them. His voice drips with genteel disgust, as though Arthas is a squire tracking mud through the foyer. That fire is up in him again, sparking from his eyes and tongue.
> 
> Arthas grins at him, and doesn't answer.

  
  
  
The next time he visits, Kael is wearing a heavy outer robe buttoned tightly to his neck, as though the thick lines might protect him from the memory of Arthas. As though _anything_ might protect him, should Arthas choose not to allow it.

He makes for a fussy picture, the stereotypical mage as painted by the unkindest warriors he'd grown up with. Small buttons hold a dark green robe closed up to a stiff collar, and without boots it touches down just a little too far. The color reminds him of Jaina.

She never _wore_ green, mind - had confessed that wearing Kul Tiras colours seemed just a little too on the nose. She'd offered him a very sweet smile, woven her arms around one of his, and said “I don't expect they'll be my colors forever.”

Her head had been a gentle weight on his shoulder, breasts a soft press to his upper arm. It had taken him nearly an entire minute to work up the nerve to kiss her. Her lips had seemed even softer. He feels peculiar, thinking of her. Too many emotions muffled, guests speaking behind a very heavy door.

Kael has to catch the skirt in one hand and twitch it out of the way before walking, lest he fall on his face. His feet are as pretty as the rest of him, slender and high arched, toes a little blue with the cold of the floor.

The living are so much more delicate than his army. Perhaps Arthas should bring him slippers.

Some piecemeal fabric is wrapped about his ear where Arthas bit it, though it has been easily long enough for it to have healed enough to expose to the air. He pulls his arms up in what Arthas dimly recognizes as the beginnings of a cast before freezing, lowering them to a calm clasp, hands buried inside overlapping sleeves.

“Prince Arthas,” he says, voice perfectly flat, and he grins.

“King, now. But I think we've gotten a little closer than all _that_ , don't you?”

His ears are betraying him. Arthas didn't really remember them being so expressive before but they certainly are now, the tips trembling despite his impassive face as Arthas stalks across the room, grazes skin lightly as he touches one finger to the buttons at Kael’s throat. He doesn’t flinch, and Arthas is almost impressed - his touch must be freezing. It’s cool in here, but the air outside of these rooms is frigid. His Scourge have no need of heating, after all.

“Do you think some buttons will stop me?”

“When common decency cannot be relied upon, one reaches for what one can,” Kael says. His heart beats so fast that heat radiates from the few points of skin that touch the air. Arthas feels powerful, virile, and that alone is near enough to satiate him for now.

“It's also damnably cold in this hellhole,” Kael says into the extending silence. Arthas thinks maybe he's trying to sound sharp, but he just seems afraid of the building tension, freezing up like a rabbit.

Well, if the ears fit.

“Shall we get you a blanket, mage prince? Fuzzy slippers to warm your feet?”

“Light forbid you take middling care with your captives,” he says dryly, and Arthas scowls.

“The Light may forbid me nothing.”

Kael opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again when Arthas reaches out to trace the little makeshift bandage with light fingers. He stays perfectly still under his touch. “It's healed by now, isn't it?”

“Largely,” Kael says, watching him warily, “but I did not wish to take any chances with so much undeath about.”

It's a reasonable precaution - at least some of their many methods for gaining followers could make their way in via an open wound, though Kael will not be exposed to them. He has different plans for him, at least for now. “Take it off.”

“Why?”

“I can take it off for you, if you'd rather. Or maybe just even them up.”

He narrows his eyes, but doesn't argue. Just untwists the little cloth, tilting his head to one side to unwrap it in quick motions.

It’s entirely healed now, with pink, taut new skin where a chunk was entirely ripped away, fading quickly into the nectarine shade of his normal coloration at the edges. He flicks his ear nervously, and Arthas reaches up to grasp the tip between thumb and forefinger, turning it a little this way and that. Mostly to be a dick, but also some genuine interest - they're all a bit precious about their ears, so this is only the second time he's touched one at all, and the first he was scarcely paying attention to what it felt like.

It's quite velvety, which he hadn’t expected - covered in a layer of very fine, downy hair, like the face of a woman or a child. More flex than the cartilage at the curve of his own ears, which he _had_ , given the way they move.

The edges of the wound are quite ragged, though not so large as it could have been - perhaps half a gold piece missing - and to Arthas’ eyes clearly the result of a bite. It serves to make him looking a little rakish, a single break is his otherwise extremely symmetrical features. Arthas rubs his thumb along the inside, smooths down those little hairs. A flush is developing at the peak, so narrow it's barely more than a pink line.

Kael’s face is tight until he lets go, at which point he rotates the ear a little in its socket, stretching out his jaw. 

“What is your goal, precisely?”

“I’ve got many goals.”

“With… _this_ ,” he motions between them. His voice drips with genteel disgust, as though Arthas is a squire tracking mud through the foyer. That fire is up in him again, sparking from his eyes and tongue.

Arthas grins at him, and doesn't answer.

He leaves shortly after without taking his satisfaction. Kael tracks his every movement, and when he leaves looks apprehensive, as though unsure whether to believe it.

It doesn't do to be predictable.

#

The next two months go like this: he oversees Lordaeron, monitors the strength and makeup of their growing army, and somewhere between every other day and every other week, he passes an hour or so with Kael.

It becomes difficult to remember why he felt threatened by Kael in the first place. He's attractive, yes, but it runs more to ‘girlishly pretty’ than masculine handsomeness. He's easily overwhelmed by Arthas’ superior strength despite his apparent intellect, and so _odd_ \- had initially continued his snarling, vicious attempts to fight him off despite the fact that without magic Arthas is very clearly his better. Likely with magic as well, though it would certainly narrow the gap significantly. That shocky, fragile reaction doesn't make an appearance again after the first time, caged firmly behind a facade of arrogance. They haven’t had a physical altercation in a while now. Arthas goads him sometimes, just to see, and Kael will snap back for a little while before putting his hand to his notched ear and becoming calm and level. It’s both more and less satisfying than overpowering him is.

It’s not every time he visits, but it is most of them, any attempts on Kael’s part to avoid him inevitably end with the sweet lines of anger and defeat singing through his shoulders as he struggles to behave as though Arthas is an irritant he is indulging while Arthas pushes his dick into him, so stiff with interest that it aches him.

Kael didn't _like_ it yet, but he will learn - will accept Arthas as his master eventually, and fight only when Arthas wants the entertainment.

So this is the interaction he's come to expect - a brief, antagonistic conversation, and to fuck him while Kael desperately attempts to pretend not to care. He's looking forward to it, even - a relief of sorts, after the weeks he has been abroad, to wield a different sort of power than what he has in the command of his passive army.

But when he walks in, Kael seems determined to skip steps. He's looking out the window like the first time, and when Arthas enters he rises, motions to the chair he’s just vacated.

Arthas pauses in the door.

“Sit _down_ ,” Kael tells him irritably, and he's so surprised that he obeys, clicks the door shut, walks over and drops into the chair given him.

Kael sweeps his long hair back from his face and kneels, a graceful fold of his lean body until he's at lap level, and pauses with his hands on Arthas’ knees.

“Are you…?” Arthas can't quite seem to commit to asking.

“You're here to seek gratification, and I would prefer to avoid your rougher attentions this evening. If you don't want your cock sucked, I'm certain I can find something else to entertain you with.”

“No, that's, uh. That’s fine.” He sounds like an idiot. Kael rolls his eyes, but spreads Arthas’ knees and moves to sit on his heels between them. He has the lacings apart and Arthas’ dick in his hand in a few quick movements.

Arthas is already stiffening at the prospect of his _mouth_ \- it isn't something he's done before, though he's certainly familiar with the concept.

Kael breathes out across the head of his dick, hot as the rest of him. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes further diffusing the glow of them from this angle, and Arthas is at full hardness without even direct contact.

He lays a wet, open mouthed kiss against the tip, and when Arthas’ dick jerks, he takes the head and some of the shaft fully into his mouth, wraps his hand around the base and massages his tongue against the underside. For a single embarrassing moment, Arthas thinks he might shoot immediately just from the novelty.

Kael bends to his task with the same studied concentration he seems to approach most things. His eyes are closed, and he has both hands on him - one around his shaft to steady it, thumb stroking firmly along the underside in rhythm as his head bobs along its length, the other alternating between stroking along his thighs and cupping his balls. When they start to tighten he doubles down, takes Arthas entirely into his mouth and swallowing around him.

It's intense - and singular, as his admittedly limited sexual experience goes. Kael wipes delicately at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and a nascent sort of fondness sweeps over him to see it, where before it would have had him sneering - he's so _prissy_. He doesn’t get up immediately, just stays where he is on the floor, legs tucked neatly beneath him as though awaiting direction. Arthas has the urge to kiss him so he does, sinks fingers through his hair and directs him up onto his knees to bring their lips together.

Kael seems genuinely startled, but acquiesces, lets Arthas kiss him and even returns it after a moment, tongue moving against his, hesitant and almost passive. The taste of himself in Kael’s mouth isn't particularly pleasant, but it _is_ erotic. He'll certainly have him do this again in future.

“What do you do when I'm not here?” Arthas asks, suddenly curious.

“There is not a great deal _to_ do,” Kael says, and unfolds gracefully to his feet. He sits himself primly at the other side of the table, hands folded in his lap. Though he simply sits there in silence and looks towards the window, Arthas has the peculiar feeling of being dismissed.

All the same, Kael looks after him as he leaves, very much as though he wants to say something.  
  
  



	3. Kael'thas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthas was never a great reader himself. If anything he reads less now than he did in life, preferring to rely as much as possible on the ability to speak to his master and subordinates directly. But he’s spent enough time around mages to know they seem to think books as vital as clean water or a warm bed, the older and dustier the better. So it’s with that in mind that he selects one at random to take with him, next he walks the halls of the citadel.

Arthas was never a great reader himself. If anything he reads _less_ now than he did in life, preferring to rely as much as possible on the ability to speak to his master and subordinates directly. But he’s spent enough time around mages to know they seem to think books as vital as clean water or a warm bed, the older and dustier the better. So it’s with that in mind that he selects one at random to take along, next he walks the halls of the citadel.

Kael is sitting by the open window again, the coldest spot in an already cold room. His cheeks and the edges of his ears are reddened with cold, as well as the ends of his fingers on one hand stretched out on the windowsill, perfectly still. A gray and white bird with a short, sparrow-like beak hops daintily near him. Why a bird would venture this far up in the first place, Arthas can’t image, but the collection of seeds and breadcrumbs that litter the sill give enough reason for it to return.

“The only other living thing in this light-forsaken place,” Kael says. His voice is gravelly, rough – its been a few weeks since Arthas found the time to venture up here. “Or will you kill that, too?”

He doesn’t bother acknowledging that. “Should you have the window open? You seem cold.”

Kael gives a harsh, disbelieving bark – in another time, it might have been a laugh, but it turns into coughing, and the bird is finally scared away, fluttering away to dive out of sight.

“Well, I have something for you, in any case.” He holds out the book. Kael accepts it hesitantly, the suspicion writ across his face turns to genuine surprise immediately he reads the cover.

“Arthas,” he breathes, “this is…”

“You like it, then?”

He doesn't respond, but opens the book and runs a hand across its pages with clear reverence. “This has been lost for at least a century.”

Kael moves easily enough to a low couch when directed, and with the window closed and some of the ever-replenishing log pile transferred to the fireplace, the red slowly begins to fade from his extremities. Mortal frailty at work again. Arthas runs a finger along the little bit of skin that’s visible above the high collar of his robe, and shivers trail behind it – Kael has warmed, but Arthas will take longer, and even now the room is still far below the permanent breezy spring of Quel’thalas.

It’s odd to realize he’s never really looked around the little suite, always laser-focused on Kael’s presence. It’s different to how it was when Arthas had first deposited him in here, suspended in unconsciousness. It’s turning slowly towards what Arthas can only presume are his tastes, warm colors seeping into the furnishings, subtly patterned wallpaper gathering on bare stone like moss. There’s little in the way of effects save for a plain silver vanity set that sits on an end table. 

It gives Arthas a moment’s pause to see, a shot of nostalgia so faint he almost misses it, and he picks the brush up almost despite himself.

His sister had a set like that, gifted by their mother in her teens. They’d gotten along well when he was younger, prior to her engagement and subsequent withdrawal. As he turns it over in his hands, filigree works its way down the handle, delicately picking out a pattern of Stratholme lilies.

When he looks up, Kael is watching him.

“The rooms provide most of what I need,” he says. There’s a small pitcher of water by him with a single glass, as though to put truth to the statement. Arthas can see the moment he notices it, because he looks irritated with it. “Though nothing actively useful,” he says pointedly.

“Do you argue with the room often?” Arthas teases him, “does it answer back?”

“More than you’d think.”

Kael tenses when he sits beside him, but still moves as directed to sit facing away from him, one leg drawn up beneath himself. His hair crackles in the cold, clinging to Arthas’ fingers.

Two years wasn’t so large a distance, but Calia had always seemed much more adult, transitioning gracefully from girl to woman while he’d stumbled behind, coltish and awkward. But even after they had grown apart, he’d done this for her every so often, especially if he’d been away for a while. When they were young they’d tell each other about their days, while he brushed her hair until it fell in glossy waves down her back.

“I hope you do this for your wife one day soon,” she’d said, the last time he’d done it. Calia had been edgy by then, closed off and intense by turns. She’d barely said good night to him for weeks, but it was like she knew somehow, how troubled he’d been about things with Jaina, how lost. Her eyes were dark where they met his in the mirror, shadowed and sad. “Don’t put it off for too long. You never know what’s going to happen.”

He hadn’t realized she was that invested in her engagement - had rather thought the opposite, in fact - but she’d gotten so _quiet_ shortly after, ghosting through the halls until their mother had taken her for a six month sabbatical.

It’s unnerving to dwell on so he lets his mind clear, concentrating on nothing more than the progression of hair from staticky tangles to a smooth river, and the taut line of Kael’s shoulders relaxing slowly beneath his hands. When he puts the brush aside, Kael turns carefully to sit back against the couch. He’s watching him again, but the calm is still there, his ears falling back in natural, slim arcs, the rigidness he’d grown accustomed to almost entirely absent.

“Are you really so lonely you’d freeze for a bird?”

Kael shrugs.

“You’re quiet today.”

“What would you have me say? I’ve developed no charming anecdotes of my time in your prison. And I’m not so lonely I would wish this experience shared, so my options for company are somewhat limited.”

“Moody. And that’s not up to you, is it?”

“What is, these days?”

He’s running one hand back and forth over the leather cover of the book, relaxed enough to seem almost sleepy. When Arthas moves to kiss him, he submits to it placidly, warm and yielding beneath his hands.

#

One of the things that Arthas would never have predicted about his new existence is how fucking _boring_ it is most of the time.

The next three weeks are an endless grind, as he carves his way through the pockets of arachnids too clever to fall to the might of the more brainless parts of the Scourge. Frostmourne consumes enough spider lords to soothe its endless hunger to a background rumble, but when Arthas emerges with his strike force back into the crystalline snap of Icecrown’s grounds it’s after having spent days carving through viscera and wading through murky waters. He’s wet, and slimy, and fouled, and the ice that snaps immediately into existence upon exposure to the frigid winds of Northrend may not cause him any real damage, but it’s another level of irritation to have to forcefully crack free every joint after any pause. His mind roils with the chattering of underlings, always there but somehow more grating than usual.

Fuck spiders.

It’s in this poor mood that he stalks through the halls of the citadel, tends to armor and flesh before departing again, no clear picture of what he wishes to accomplish except to get away.

The white lady is waxed full and near her fullest perigee. _Laying down her skirts for the blue child to climb_ , his mother would tell him.

He would have arrived empty-handed - and it would be his right to do so – but the time it takes to walk the halls has a strong enough tranquilizing effect that when he passes a bookshelf by happenstance, Arthas finds itself in him to pause long enough to sweep a half dozen tomes under one arm without regard for what they might contain.

Kael’s rooms are strangely split. The little living area is entirely washed out by stark moonlight, but the bed is angled away and glows warm, illuminated by fire. A spill of gold and the tips of Kael’s ears are all that are visible over the top of the plush mound of pillows, thick bedding pulled high by a hand now curled and lax.

The dim crackle of the slowly dying fire and the soft whisper of his breathing are all that interrupt the silence of his room, and it’s only standing upon the threshold that Arthas thinks of the significance of the height of the moon, crawling inexorably towards morning.

Kael’thas may be the only thing inside of the walls of the citadel that _does_ sleeps. Arthas sits beside the bed, watches the fire, and fancies that he can feel the soft puffs of warm air leaving Kael drift towards him - he may have no need of it himself, but the whisper of minds that accompany him everywhere fades to no more than a gentle rumble inside the dampening field of these suites, and as time passes with no sound or task to interrupt him, the tranquility of these rooms is something as much like sleep as he’s experienced in the long months since he first picked up Frostmourne.

It’s only within the boundaries of this undisturbed state that he can examine the dissatisfaction that has been mounting, trace the beginning of his mood to a growing sense of resentment at being saddled with a master.

Perhaps a future crown had weighed heavily upon him once, but the Scourge are his people more truly than even the people of Lordaeron were. Was it not he who secured the ally-ship of Anub’arak, through the blood and grime of his uprising? Who lobbied for it in the first place, to shore up their position in Northrend? No – doubts were the province of the living, and the time approached for Arthas to claim his birthright. Or death-right, as the case may be.

A more total darkness descends as the moons set, held at bay when Arthas stokes the fire idly, and it’s only as it recedes again with the approach of dawn that Kael begins to show signs of an ascent towards waking, sleepy huffing noises and an initial retreat further inside of the bedding to hide from the pale, cold light of Icecrown sunrise. Arthas feels no need to linger, suddenly. There are countless things that could use his attention outside of this room. So he drops wood into the fire, and stacks the little collection of books on the bedside table.

Feeling a little like Greatfather Winter, stealing silently through a dark room to leave gifts for the sleeping, he doesn’t think to resist the urge to trace one cheekbone with his thumb. He should be up to the temperature of the room by now, but Kael is close enough to wakefulness to stir, turning his face towards the pillow. The quilt that covers him draws back just enough with movement to reveal the book that Arthas had brought him previously, clutched close like a comfort object in the hands of any child.

Kael yawns, and his throat clicks. In a small voice, confused and thick with sleep, he says “Rom?”

But the door is already closing. As the chattering of his people returns, it is not annoyance that Arthas feels, but vindication.


	4. Kael'thas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You seem less angry, lately.”
> 
> Kael shrugs one-shouldered, not looking up from his book. “I won't be here forever. Eventually, this will be barely a footnote in a very long life.”
> 
> “I'll do my best to leave an impression then,” he teases, and Kael’s mouth goes tight.
> 
> “You already have.”

It’s barely over a week before Arthas makes it back to those rooms, humming and pleased.

Kael isn’t by the window for once, propped lazily against the headboard in only a thin shirt and slim pants that cling nicely to the line of his thigh where he’s drawn one up to balance a book on one knee. It’s still open though, just a little, ever-present little crumb plate balanced on the sill.

He doesn't look up, but Arthas is very sure that his attention is not on the book any more, with his ears are alert and unnaturally still. Perhaps this will be his latest trick - to pretend Arthas is of no consequence.

He nearly turns to leave again just to force Kael to call out, see if he’ll be desperate enough to reach for the only person he might talk with.

He doesn’t, though – Arthas has his own plans for the day, and won’t let chance stubbornness spoil them. The next stage begins for them all very soon.

Anyway, he could always take all paper with him, if Kael’s going to be like that about it. Or put them just outside the door, let him rail at a threshold he cannot pass for entertainment.

Arthas sits next to him, leans over to peer at the book. It's something about the properties of mercury glass with necromantic forces, and in less than a paragraph he’s sure it will be as great a punishment to leave them; it’s the driest thing he’s ever read in his life.

Kael turns the page, taking no care to keep their arms from touching. He's warm - the entire room is quite warm, fire built up unusually high, which probably explains why he's without a robe for once.

“Cold?”

“You are, yes,” Kael drawls, and turns another page. He's pretty sure it's for effect - nobody reads that fast.

“Shall I warm you up?”

“Unlikely.”

Arthas snorts. It's true enough, that warmth left him as thoroughly as doubt. Kael turns his head pointedly to read, and a lock of honey-blonde hair falls forward, obscuring his face. Arthas reaches out to brush it back - he's not quite sure how to go about tucking it behind his ear - and Kael twitches just a little when his fingertips graze his cheek.

“You seem less angry, lately.”

Kael shrugs one-shouldered, not looking up from his book. “I won't be here forever. Eventually, this will be barely a footnote in a very long life.”

“I'll do my best to leave an impression then,” he teases, and Kael’s mouth goes tight.

“You already have.”

He likes that. Oh, he's not worried that Kael’s right, and will escape somehow - _Arthas_ is right, has been right about everything, and this will be no different - but that confirmation he's left a lasting mark is still pleasing. That he's branded ownership across Kael’s soul. When it comes time for him to be reborn, Arthas will be gentle in the taking.

He sits by him and thinks of the heat leaving his skin, of that haughty face in the strange wash of blue that other high elves turn when brought to his service. Every time his hair falls forward Arthas pushes it back again, keeps his profile clear to look upon, and eventually Kael passes his hand over the top of his head, fingers combing it back to fall behind his ears.

It happens in very slow increments, but Kael relaxes and goes back to genuinely reading. He bites at his lip a little sometimes while he does it, or his eyebrows will raise a little - he's an opinionated reader, and as expressive with that as anything else.

When Arthas runs his finger along the bottom ridge of his ear, traces the place he'd bitten away, Kael barely reacts. When he leans in to kiss along his neck, Kael carefully marks his place and slides the book to the edge of the bed.

He seems surprised when Arthas produces a phial of oil, though he doesn't fight back or try to distract him when he slides off those tight black pants, but plucks it out of his hands and begins preparing himself for Arthas without commenting on it. He closes his eyes while he does it, so Arthas just watches his fingers sliding in and out, pushing against the taut ring of muscle until it starts to give more easily, all with an air of efficiency that speaks to experience.

Arthas doesn't like that some other man has touched what is now his. But he's distracted from the thought by Kael jacking him expertly, spreading oil liberally over his dick. When he moves as if to turn over, Arthas stops him. This will mark the first time that Arthas has entered him inside the circle of this peculiar almost-friendliness, and he wants to be able to see his face, see how it affects him to be connected without violence, without fear.

The slick, tight heat is wonderful, quite a lot better around his dick than pushing in dry had been. Kael moves beneath him, matches his pace when he starts pumping in and out, and when Arthas balances on one hand and wraps the other around his dick, he finally _looks_ at him with that steady, glowing gaze, mouth tight and unhappy for a moment before he smooths back into neutrality. But he does get hard, and his dick is surprisingly appealing, leaner and longer than his own, with the barest curve to it.

It's enough better that it doesn't take as long as his ego might like before he falls to rutting almost mindlessly into the pliant body beneath him, hand tight around that pretty dick. Kael takes it with as much dignity as anyone can have while being enthusiastically fucked, and when Arthas comes in him, bites down hard enough on the meat of his shoulder to get blood on his teeth, he yelps a little but stays hard. He also doesn’t take long to jack off from there - it’s not exactly difficult or foreign, for all the angle’s new, but Kael won’t look at him while he does it, long fingers curled defiantly into the sheets below them.

Well, that’s fine. They’ll have plenty of time for him to learn to like that too.

Arthas wipes light sweat and sticky semen from Kael’s chest with the corner of the sheet. He's strange, watching him - seems even quieter than normal somehow, though he’d spoken no less than usual. Subdued.

“Why is the fire so high?”

“I… miss it,” Kael admits after a moment. When he blinks, his eyes remain closed for a long moment before opening again. “I always connected easily with fire. But I haven't felt it in so long.” His voice goes wistful. “I don't know how long.”

“About five months, give or take.”

It doesn’t seem late, the sun high enough to keep the outside world sharp and white, but Kael seems… run down. Tired. Though Arthas hardly knows what hours he’s has been keeping - has no real need to think of time for his own sake - it does seem to pass differently here, somehow.

He seems terribly sad, looking at the ceiling, but this _is_ his sabbatical, and Arthas cannot spare any more time from his duties than he does already.

“Shall I find you another bird?” he asks, voice quiet, and Kael snorts.

“You do seem to like your cages.” He closes his eyes for a long moment, opens them again. “What is your plan, Arthas? To keep me here until you grow bored of these games, and then dispatch me anyway?”

“You’ve asked me that before.”

“You didn’t _answer_ me, before.”

“Why do you think I’ll answer you now?”

“Perhaps I’ll grow bored before you do, and dispatch myself.”

“Don't be melodramatic,” he says, but with genuine alarm - it had not occurred to him to consider Kael a risk to himself, but there's a bitterness beneath the rough rasp that betrays genuinely weighed consideration.

“I won’t be one of your liches, no matter how many books you bring me on the subject.”

Ah, and there’s that anger. Arthas props himself up on one arm, looks down at Kael’s face, set in bitterness. Kael avoids his eyes.

“You'll find out when you're ready to hear it,” Arthas tells him, as gentle as he can remember how to be. “The only books in the citadel are whatever Kel’thuzad left here instead of in the Scholomance; no coincidence, but no purpose, either. If you have some secret hankering for bodice rippers, I can't help you.”

That seems to appease Kael a little, at least. He’ll be convinced eventually, of course, but Arthas never really thought to be the one doing the convincing.

“Come on then, talk to me of something else. Have you been to Kalimdor?” He lays down so they’re side by side, intimate and curious. The patterning that creeps the wall is filled across the top of the room, a deep red with delicate cloth hangings that seem to weave into existence as he watches them.

“Not recently,” Kael replies. “How long will you be gone?”

“Who says I’m going anywhere?”

The look Kael shoots the ceiling is withering. Arthas grins.

“Why? Will you miss me?”

Kael rolls his eyes. “Has that ever worked for you?”

Secret smiles, stolen kisses on the streets of Dalaran. “As I recall, better than whatever you tried. Why didn’t _you_ like me, anyway?”

Kael turns his head completely, seeming struck enough by the question to forget he’s not looking at him. Then he gestures at the room around them, and it’s Arthas’ turn to roll his eyes.

“ _Before_ ,” he stresses.

“I didn't hate you.”

“Didn't you? You seemed to. My father hoped that we'd be great friends.”

“And a good deal of stock you put by his opinions, I'm sure.”

His father had been set in his ways, and paid the price for it. Arthas wouldn’t be guilted over the mistakes of an old fool.

“You were friendly to everyone, but not me. Not even before things with Jaina were serious.”

“Did you ever think the lack of seriousness might have made up part of my dislike?”

Always it came back to her, with them. “I wasn’t playing with her, Kael.”

“Are you really going to claim offense that I doubted your constancy?”

“I wasn't _inconstant_ ,” he snaps, and Kael raises both absurd eyebrows. "What would _you_ know of it, anyway?”

Kael slants another look at him then, steady and assessing. Something like apprehension makes its way down the fluid lines of his limbs, binding his hands together in that strange, regal pose he takes sometimes. It should look absurd, laying down and mostly naked, but it doesn’t. “Nothing, your majesty. She never confided in _me_.”

It's as transparent an attempt to calm him as the efforts at ignoring him had been an attempt to take control, and while Arthas is not stupid, he finds himself mollified by it all the same.

“Well now, don't sulk,” Arthas tells him, and turns him over for a hard kiss. Kael startles, but only initially, submits easily enough for Arthas’ mood to improve again.

“It should only be a few weeks - I'll bring you back a gift. Something you’ll like.”

“I doubt that,” Kael tells him, and closes his eyes.

He’s being taciturn, but Arthas will allow it, for now. Kael had become his at some point, beyond just a prisoner or a captive to be something that _belonged_ to him, to be treasured and enjoyed. His lean and razor-sharp elven prince, caught and kept, different from the only other person who’d ever fascinated him, and at the same time just similar enough to be a good foil to her lush beauty, round and ripe as a peach.

He waits for Kael to succumb to the silence before he leaves, lets his breathing even out - even indulges in listening to it for a while. Funny, how quickly these rooms had become a sanctuary, despite the moodiness of their occupant.

Arthas takes care to close the window before he leaves, empties the plate onto the outside sill. He’s not entirely clear on the working of the room - knows Kael can’t get so much as a fingertip beyond the doorjamb, but the window _is_ very high. The iron of the latch flexes easily enough beneath his grip.

All would serve him, in the end, but what harm could come from keeping one or two alive for awhile? Perhaps he’ll bring her straight here, when he returns. He'd never had difficulty convincing Jaina of anything, and this would be no different, but it would still take some time - and then more as she convinced Kael in turn. In the meantime Arthas will have warm curios to amuse himself with, buried deep in the cold of his citadel. For it _would_ be his, soon enough. Who would stop him?

Jaina had once sworn never to deny him anything - well, he had a request.

  
  


End of Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that took about two months and 1,500 words longer than expected :V


End file.
